


Confidence

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Breathplay, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-14 04:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19265923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "It’s hard to speak levelly when the subject at hand burns embarrassment across Steve's cheeks, but Bucky has the tense look he always gets when he’s thinking about retreating, whether metaphorically or literally, and there’s nothing Steve could ask for that he wants more than Bucky here with him." Steve persuades Bucky to make an exploration of their present physicality.





	Confidence

“I don’t know if I can do this.” Bucky’s voice is low, closer to a murmur than the declaration it ought to be. It would be hard to hear him, in other circumstances or with someone else; but Steve’s watching the shift of dark hair fall in front of the other’s face, and no matter where they are he never has any trouble focusing entirely on Bucky. The other’s shoulders flex, bare skin and glittering metal hunching up towards his ears as his spine curves in to tilt him farther over his lap. “You don’t know what I might do to you, Steve.”

“I don’t,” Steve admits, as calmly as he can. It’s hard to speak levelly when the subject at hand is enough to burn embarrassment across his cheeks at the same time it flushes his cock with arousal, but Bucky has the tense look he always gets when he’s thinking about retreating, whether metaphorically or literally, and there’s nothing Steve could ask for that he wants more than Bucky here with him. “But I know we’d be okay. I know who you are, I know what you want.” He lifts his hand from where it’s resting alongside him at the bed so he can reach out to touch his fingertips gently against Bucky’s near shoulder, warm with human heat instead of the cool strength of his mechanical arm. “I trust you.”

Bucky coughs a sound that has the shape of a laugh if not the fact of it. “You shouldn’t,” he says. “I don’t trust me, I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s a talent,” Steve says, and meets Bucky’s sideways glance with a smile as soft as he can make it. “I’ve always known you’ll be there for me.”

Bucky holds Steve’s gaze for a long minute. His eyes are dark in the shadows of his hair but even with the barrier before them Steve can see the ache of uncertainty tight at the corners of his eyes. It speaks more clearly than anything else to the uncertainty in him, the fear that tilts his shoulders in and keeps his chin ducked so his features are nearly constantly hidden in the spill of his loose hair. “I already hate myself enough for what I’ve done to other people, Steve.” He rasps a breath and shakes his head. “If I ended up hurting you with this…”

“I won’t let you,” Steve says, and tips his smile towards a self-deprecating twist. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m a little tougher than I used to be, Buck.” That gets a curve of Bucky’s lips, if not quite a laugh, and Steve smiles in answer before he lets his touch slide down Bucky’s shoulder and to the line of his arm, where his hand is lying slack in his lap.

“I know who you were,” he says, speaking gently, with none of the easy teasing that came before. “You’re still yourself, that hasn’t changed.”

“Any more than you have?” Bucky suggests.

“Any more than I have,” Steve agrees. “I still want to be with you.” He lifts his hand from Bucky’s near arm to stretch across and brush his fingertips over the interlocking joints that make up the other’s metal forearm and the angle of his wrist. “All of you, the way you are now.”

Bucky grimaces. For a moment Steve thinks he’s going to pull his arm away outright in a rejection too clear to be mistaken; the pattern of metal shifts, twisting on itself as his fingers curl in towards his palm. But when Bucky moves it’s to turn his hand up, easing his hold to make an offering of his touch instead of refusal of it, and when he shifts his arm Steve’s fingers slide down along the inside of the other’s forearm without Bucky flinching to jerk away. Steve’s heart beats faster at the feel of it, the slick-smooth metal cool as water under his fingers but moving with all of Bucky’s inherent grace, and then Bucky lifts his metal hand to catch Steve’s fingers with his own and interlace them together. He’s being deliberately gentle -- Steve can feel the restraint thrumming in the tension of the other’s hold, as he keeps himself to typical human force instead of the crushing power his arm can offer -- but there’s still pressure enough to shiver down Steve’s spine with a heat that has long-since become familiar to him when the thinks of the flex of Bucky’s metal arm and the weight of those fingers against his skin.

Bucky swallows with force enough for Steve to hear the strain of it in the other’s throat. “You’ll tell me?” he asks, his hold squeezing against Steve’s hand to make a plea out of his grip as much as his words. “You have to tell me if it’s too much.”

Steve’s cheeks heat, his throat tightens with anticipation, but what he does is duck his head into agreement, offering ready capitulation while he’s still finding words for himself. “I will, Bucky.” He lifts his free hand to press against Bucky’s other arm and squeeze gently against the other’s bicep. “Like this, alright?”

Bucky ducks his head into a nod that tips his hair spilling down in front of his face before leaning in against Steve’s hold against his arm. Steve eases the brace of his fingers, loosening his hold without letting his touch fall aside, and when Bucky lifts his chin Steve is shutting his eyes in answer without hesitation in offering the part of his lips for Bucky’s mouth. Bucky urges against him, kissing against Steve’s lips with the tense desperation that he always carries with him, now, along with the weight of his metal arm, and when he lifts his hand to skim Steve’s waist Steve is already leaning backwards, tilting himself over the bed at the same time he lifts his touch from Bucky’s arm to catch at the back of the other’s head and urge him along with him.

They fit together smoothly. Steve doesn’t know if it’s their history together, memories from decades past written deeply enough into their bodies that they can recall them even now, with his broader shoulders and Bucky’s scarred mind; maybe it’s something more innate even than that that slots Bucky’s knee between his own and fits Steve’s fingers to cup against the curve at the back of Bucky’s head. The reason makes no real difference; it’s enough that they do fit together, Bucky tilting in as Steve goes back, until they are pressed together against the sheets of the bed beneath them with no more than the heat of their bodies between one and the other. Bucky hesitates for a moment as Steve drops back to the pillow, retreating by an inch as if unsure of his welcome, but Steve still has his hand at the back of the other’s head and that’s enough to urge him back in for more. Bucky surrenders to Steve’s pull without resistance, lets himself be urged in and against the other’s mouth, and Steve lets them linger like that for a long minute, without pushing for anything beyond the simple comfort of his lips finding and fitting themselves to the soft curve of Bucky’s. Bucky tips his head to the side, angling into a deeper kiss as his shoulders flex to brace him steady over Steve, and Steve lets his hand slide down Bucky’s neck to span the work of muscle in the other’s shoulders, pressing to the space between his shoulderblades with weight enough to brace them steady.

There’s no rush to move. Steve is always content to linger in the bone-deep satisfaction that comes with kissing Bucky, and Bucky always kisses as if it’s the one thing left that is truly his, as if he might be able to find his way back to himself if he stays pressed to Steve’s lips long enough. All the same, he’s responsive enough to give way when Steve urges him to it, and when Steve’s fingers draw away from his back to reach for Bucky’s arm he doesn’t even have to squeeze pressure before Bucky is drawing away to spill the rasp of his breathing to audibility instead of muffled at Steve’s mouth. His arm tenses under Steve’s hold, flexing as he pushes himself up to lean in over the other beneath him. Bucky looks down at Steve for a moment, his hair heavy around his face and his eyes dark with heat and uncertainty and doubt all together; and then he draws a breath through his nose, and sets his jaw on the full force of intention, and lifts his metal hand to fit his fingers to the rhythm of breathing in Steve’s throat.

Steve can feel himself go hot all at once. Bucky isn’t squeezing, isn’t exerting any kind of pressure with the flex of his fingers, but the cool of the metal is thrilling in itself, to have clasping collar-close against Steve’s neck. Steve’s lashes dip, working towards a flutter in spite of his best efforts to remain calm and composed, and then Bucky shifts his weight, and tightens his grip, and all Steve’s intentions towards composure disintegrate entirely.

Steve remembers some part of this. It’s part of the combat prowess that was driven into Bucky in place of his destroyed memories, a result of the brainwashing that made him a machine more than the man that Steve has known all his life. In the middle of a fight Steve thinks there must be nothing more terrifying than the feel of cold metal closing tight around his throat to stifle his breathing and steal his strength. But here, in this context, with the soft of a bed beneath him and Bucky’s gaze clear and focused in spite of the fear dark behind his lashes, the surrender of control is something heady, intoxicating in a way Steve has never felt. Steve knows what it is to be forced into helplessness, to have his power stripped from him against his will; to offer it up willingly is something else entirely, a pleasure so intense it’s all Steve can do to keep from rocking up to press for more, to urge Bucky on to greater force and further pressure. He shuts his eyes for a moment instead, blocking the distraction of vision to linger in the heat coursing to a wave through him, until he can trust his voice enough to speak in a tone of reasonable calm, however strained his words may be by Bucky’s grip.

“I’m alright,” he manages, and slides his hand along Bucky’s arm to demonstrate the ease of his grip against the other. “I can take more, Bucky.”

Bucky rasps a laugh. “You always say that,” he says, but the words are soft rather than urging for a response, and as his grip tightens Steve thinks that’s for the best as his throat strains to hold onto even rasping breathing. Bucky’s thumb is pressing to the side of his neck, pinning weight against the rhythm of Steve’s thudding heartbeat without pinching against the pulse of blood; the only resistance he’s offering is in the angle of his fingers tight against Steve’s windpipe, restricting the other’s breathing to a wheeze. Steve gasps for air, straining to pull it into his chest, and between his legs Bucky’s knee slides up to press between his thighs and against the ache of his swollen cock. It’s a reminder, a suggestion with action instead of the fumbling effort of words, and Steve is glad to take it. He slides his free hand down, keeping his hold on Bucky’s arm as he does, until he finds the length of his cock tilting up towards the flat of his stomach. There’s a pleasure to the weight of his fingers drawing along the shaft, with no more pressure than that minimal friction, but Steve only skims against himself before reaching up to touch at Bucky’s stomach so he can draw down to the other’s length instead. Bucky’s as hard as he is, achingly hot in spite of the dark uncertainty in his eyes; Steve watches his face as he slides his palm up across the other, tracking the dip of Bucky’s lashes as the fit of his grip at Steve’s throat shifts with adrenaline-fueled tremors. Steve draws his fingers around Bucky’s length, testing his hold with as much care as he can; then he draws down, and Bucky’s hips angle to meet his own as if Steve had put words to his intent instead of silent action. Steve catches his hold around his own cock too, pressing them together in the span of his grip, and when he strokes up over them Bucky lets his breath go at once, and shifts his hand to press tighter to Steve’s throat.

There’s a rhythm to it. Steve moves slowly, drawing over the both of them with a dreamy care as he feels the heat in him ebb and flow, rising higher and hotter with each motion, and Bucky matches him, tightening his grip until Steve can’t draw air at all before loosening enough to allow a gasp or two of straining breath. Steve’s shoulders flex against the bed, tightening with instinctive response to the draw of his hand pressing his arousal and Bucky’s close enough that one’s pleasure urges the other’s higher, and Bucky shifts his knees, pressing against Steve’s hip to steady himself so he can lift his other hand from the sheets and bring it around to overlay his metal fingers in clasping at Steve’s throat. Steve hisses a breath, dragging air deep into his chest as his heart pounds, as his cock jumps against Bucky’s in his hold, and Bucky’s fingers flex to close off his windpipe entirely. Steve is left with lips parted and pulse racing, his whole body flushing with heat at the deprivation of vital oxygen, and Bucky looking down at him, his eyes dark and chest heaving as if he’s the one feeling the strain of breathing even more keenly than Steve is.

Steve stares up at Bucky’s face, his throat flexing and his cheeks flushed and his cock as hard as he has ever felt it; and he tightens his grip around their lengths and strokes fast, pulling hard over them both to urge Bucky on to the same arousal he can feel peaking in the tremors of his own body. Bucky’s lashes flutter, his throat works over a broken-off groan, and Steve’s legs are tensing, his toes are curling, his vision is blurring to hazy white. His chest is nothing but pressure, his throat burning and body shaking; but his cock is hot in his grip, his hold is stroking fast to press Bucky hard against him. He’s fighting to see, clinging to the present with all the resolution he possesses, and then:

“Steve,” Bucky rasps, sounding hot and agonized and desperate, and Steve’s hips jerk, his body arching up to thrust against his hold as he comes. His head tips back, his mouth comes open on voiceless heat, and as he spills over his stomach Bucky is coming too, pulsing into heat as if led there by Steve’s own release. For a heartbeat Steve is drawn taut, relief and need straining the one against the other; then Bucky gasps, and loosens his grip, and Steve draws a rattling breath to fill his lungs all at once. The satisfaction of it is immediate, enough to unravel all the tension in him, until he thinks there might be as much satisfaction from that first inhale as in the whole trembling force of his orgasm.

Bucky drops his metal hand to the bed, rocking forward to brace himself as his head dips far forward, and Steve keeps moving, stroking them both through aftershocks until the trembling force of heat has given way to the full-body ache of release. He slows his motion, easing his hold to draw his hand away and pressing to Bucky’s hip instead, and when he lifts his touch from the other’s arm to his hair Bucky ducks forward to tip in and collapse against the support of Steve beneath him. Steve draws a deep breath into his chest, reveling in the simple pleasure of filling his lungs with the heat of the air around them, and when he slides his fingers into Bucky’s hair he can feel the shudder of the other’s exhale against his shoulder spilling warmth enough to glow through the whole of his body.

They stay like that for a long minute: Bucky lying across Steve’s chest, hands heavy at the bed while Steve braces his touch at Bucky’s hip and wanders his other hand to idle affection in the other’s hair. It’s only as Steve’s throat is beginning to ease from the pressure of Bucky’s hands against him that Bucky moves, and even then not to lift his head or shift his weight. He just sets his elbow at the sheets, pressing to steady himself as he tips sideways, and Steve shifts too, rocking to the side to allow space for Bucky to fit his arm in and under him. Cool metal slides across Steve’s back, Bucky’s fingers spreading wide to gentle pressure at the curve of the other’s spine as he wraps the strength of his arm around Steve beneath him. Steve blinks up at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused as his attention clings to Bucky against him until the other shudders a sigh and relaxes back against the support of his chest. Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t speak; but he smiles at the ceiling before he turns his head to press his lips to Bucky’s hair with as much care as the other’s hold looped around his waist to keep them together.


End file.
